My years of home engineering have taught me a couple things about doing the laundry. Some are of marginal importance: the inside of dryers are mostly metal; the inside of washers are mostly plastic. Some are critical: laundry done right is completely invisible; mess something up and everyone complains. Most importantly, laundry is best undertaken with the lowest expectations.
My daughter did a ten mile charity ride this weekend with her buddies. I got up early and made sure the tires were inflated, brakes adjusted and chains lubed. Finding myself with a couple of extra minutes and nothing left to do, I dug up the smallest jersey I own, an assortment of GU packets and carefully laid them out by her seat.
The morning's plan was aggressive: since the ride HQ was on the way from our house to Wells Ave and it takes me seven minutes to get to Wells if I backpedal, I should be able to escort Sonja to her ride, go sign up for the A race at Wells, return to the charity ride and pedal along until my embarrassed thirteen year old starts to ignore me, and then scoot back to Wells for a forty lap crit. I had about an hour between leaving the house and roll off. Much to my surprise, Sonja threw on the jersey and stuffed the pockets with GU.
At this point, you might expect a heart warming tale of the abandoned race and the new found father-daughter bond. Or the madcap adventure chock full of misunderstandings, close calls and moments of triumph. I hope this won't disappoint: the morning unfolded just as I had planned. I was home for lunch with dead legs and a pocket full of primes. Sonja arrived just before me with dead legs and a pocket full of empty GU wrappers. I don't know who was happier.
But while doing the laundry this afternoon, I held up the jersey and had a flashback. It's a XXL Mercatone Uno that I bought as a gift for my father. It must have been right after Pantani's 1998 TdF win. At the time, I didn't own a bike and didn't know Il Pirata from Il Pinata; I probably hadn't been inside a bike shop in fifteen years. The XXL tag is either a mistake or an insider's joke. In any case, I tried the jersey on to see if it would fit him. I don't remember how I found International Bicycle Center or what other gifts I thought my dad might like. What I remember is pulling on the jersey and looking in the mirror and wishing I could race bicycles.
The Mercatone Uno was my dad's first real cycling jersey. He had ran and rode for as long as I can remember, but didn't wear anything more technical than a pair of knit gloves. Eventually, he developed a preference for club cut jerseys and gave the Mercatone Uno back to me. By that time, I was sporting team kit. The Mercatone Uno got worn on roller days in the basement and lately had worked its way to the bottom of the drawer.
Pantani's gone. My dad's still in the saddle, but doesn't do the Wednesday night shop ride anymore. He keeps the miles short and sweet. Back in 1998, I could only imagine riding a bicycle again and the things I might stuff in those three pockets. Three generations filling the exact same pockets was completely beyond me - nearly as unlikely as something interesting turning up in the laundry.
